My Buddy Doll (c) Hasbro
April 13, 2019
Written in Memory of my Aunt Emma’
This is Budd’s appreciation to his new followers.
My latest and greatest inspirations;
Ascending to the watcher’s towers.
This ain’t start in the ghetto.
But I started well below zero.
A negro ruling from his free flow.
Wordplay weirdos, assume you know.
Ignorant scrolling fools like me don’t grow.
Reframing the auto-correct for a written flow.
That came and gone, though;
Through reading now and again you know.
Thanks aunty Emma, this little nigga now gloats.
You are heaven’s new angel.
Like you, Buddy’s eyes still glow.
People afraid like the King’s post.
Thus they bow, for the King’s in their know.
Still feasting for the fallin’ stranger.
And victimize to unfollow from anger.
Thinking ugly is their fellow.
But ain’t no Budd in my why.
Don’t ever Buddy me and I’ll tell you why.
My down-syndrome best Budd.
Barber at four, leaving no hair for my black Budd.
I never asked him why.
But you’ll read the why in my love.
Might’ve assumed in a letter it lies..
7,000 words of poetic love, written live.
He cut out the why in my toy I loved.
Destruction of possession
An oblivious childhood lesson.
Negro doll, curly like my best friends.
Hate wasn’t taught.
But a fresh 90’s haircut is what My Buddy doll got.
Now running a lot.
Being still for the anxiety to stop.
Used to write about my suicide but the anxiety attacks pop.
Panic attacks and what not.
Nothing to do with mental health.
Oh wait, I’m referring to preventative health.
Listen to your doctor.
You can end up like batman with a powerful belt.
One that defeats wealth.
No, not God.
Or religions we believe we felt.
Readers be like.
Never read about Budd despite.
Writing his fears and walking into them day and night.
‘B’ is for beast.
‘U’ is for understanding the need to get the fuck out my way.
The rest is wordplay.
But know the kids are the only groups safe.
The why ain’t a cry.
The why is why the eye’s will never lie.
The deep soul it takes to carry the eye into your bliss.
Most match the intense.
But cannot hold the beast’s cry.
So they look away in response.
The gift’s in his sight.
One we see all night.
The stars, the waters.
It’s the gift of life.
Can thee gift it right?
Thou received it.
A gift you can trust.
Not one you’ll put up to dust.
Emma dealt the gift she felt.
A little black boy.
With eye’s as big as her little nephew.
What a toy.
My Buddy and me.
Right for the running beast under thee.
Thus a gift that keeps giving.
Where the land is life.
We live to keep breathing.
Some write to keep inspiring.
Another why for Budd’s crying.
But don’t pander at Budd’s eye.
This is his journey of tries.
Like in the wyld, I started by being there.
Like the leaves, I fell.
Then the dirt, I lied.
So as trees over time, I grew.
Reptilian brain also grew insane.
I gathered food I felt I knew.
With water, I washed with the others who walked how I knew.
And out of no where, I shined like the sky I often looked up to.
Slept for rest, because that’s what people do.
Gifted ways to be happy.
Thus, I share with you.
An experiment you foo’.
It’s how Buddy grew.
An extended gift to you.
Thanks for reading.
Enjoy the day.
And buy my book some day..
Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, Budd writes to encourage readers to explore the depths of their inner ocean, an unexplored self, because it's fun once you get through the emotional part... "The words we speak become our vehicle; what you read is how I digest them.” -Budd